


Species Age Differently

by Lailuva



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Baby Yoda confronts mortality, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Everyone you love dies in this fic, Gen, as a part of life way, but they lived happy fulfilled lives!, if that makes sense, not in an angsty way but, tagging this is weird bc it's about death but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lailuva/pseuds/Lailuva
Summary: Din has long accepted and understood that he will be outlived by his son.  His son isn't quite ready for the same realization.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 331





	Species Age Differently

**Author's Note:**

> In light of the current situation (as of 3/19/20) I'd like to add the disclaimer that there is one mention of death by illness in passing in this fic. Overall the focus is death as a part of life, and how the characters handle it. If you find this upsetting in the current climate, please read with caution. (In my defense I wrote it a while back and forgot to post it until I had time aka at the worst possible moment aka now; also The Witcher soundtrack makes me write melancholy things.)
> 
> Since Baby Yoda hasn't been officially named yet, he goes by Kuiil Djarin in the fic, because I'm partial to the idea of Din naming him after Kuiil, who sacrificed everything for Baby Yoda.
> 
> There's a lot of Mando'a ahead. It has all been sourced from [mandoa.org](http://mandoa.org/). The big ones you need to know for the fic are:
> 
> Buir = parent (gender neutral, in this case "father")  
> Ad'ika = little one (again gender neutral but in this case "son")  
> Resol'nare = The tenets of Mandalorian life; in this fic I treat it as another term for the Way  
> Manda = the collective soul or heaven - the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit; Mandalorians believe they join the manda when they die.

“Buir?”

Din looked down at his child, sitting on the table as they ate. “What is it, ad’ika?”

“Your hair used to be dark.”

“Oh.” Din automatically ruffled the curls on his head, stiffer and shorter than they once were. “Yeah, it was.”

“It was brown but now it’s turned grey and white like mine. Why?”

Din put a spoonful of food in his mouth to think about how to phrase his answer. “Well, Kuiil…” he finally said, “That’s… just what happens when people get old. Well, most humanoid species with hair. Humans for sure.”

Kuiil laughed, clapping his little hands. “We match, buir! We both have white hair!” He cocked his head. “Or will it turn brown again?”

Din chuckled. “No, ad’ika. It’ll stay white from now on.” Given the life he’d led, and the little one he’d adopted, he was surprised the brown had lasted as long as it had.

“Why’d it change, buir? My hair didn’t change when I turned sixty-five. It was already white.”

“I told you, Kuiil, I’m getting old.” He was lucky, too, most of his people didn’t reach this age, a consequence of a culture where death in battle was the most honorable and the most likely. “Your body changes as you get older.”

“Yeah, but you aren’t getting any taller or stronger like I am,” said Kuiil, frowning.

“I did that already, when I was a kid,” said Din. “You’re still a kid. I’m an adult.”

“But…” Kuiil frowned, his ears drooping. “But I’m older than you.”

Was that what was causing his confusion? “Kuiil, ad’ika, we’re different species. When I found you, you were already fifty but acted like a human one-year-old. Now you’re seventy-two but you’re about the same as a human ten-year-old, as far as growth. Our species age differently.”

“But… but then…” Kuiil’s eyes were wide. “How long do my species live?”

“I don’t know,” said Din. He’d scoured libraries across planets, investigated crumbling ruins of the Jetii and the Darjetii, spoken to hundreds of people with strange powers; although some had records of other members of Kuiil’s species, none had a name or much information on them. “Centuries, I’d guess. Since you age so much slower, you’ll be long-lived, I’d think.”

“How long do humans live?” asked Kuiil.

“A hundred years, on average. Depends on a lot of factors. Mandalorians don’t usually live that long because we prefer to die a warrior’s death in battle, for example.”

“But…”

Din looked up from his food and his son was staring at him in abject horror. He immediately put his spoon down. “What’s wrong, ad’ika?”

Tears welled up in Kuiil’s eyes. “Buir, buir, I don’t want you to be gone!” he wailed as he jumped at Din, hugging him tight around the neck.

“I’m not gone yet, ad’ika,” said Din, holding him close, trying not to smile. Clearly these were important feelings to his little one and he didn’t want to mock that.

“I don’t want to be without you,” said Kuiil into his neck. “I don’t  _ ever _ want you to be gone.”

“Even when I die I won’t be gone, ad’ika,” said Din, stroking his head. “I will be part of the manda, and you will never be without me as long as you live by the Resol’nare.” He hugged his son close. “And even if that isn’t what you choose, I will watch over you from the manda anyway.”

“You said we’re already the manda when we follow the Resol’nare,” said Kuiil. “Don’t go, buir, promise? Don’t ever go!”

Din hugged him closer. “Oh, ad’ika, as long as I have breath in my body, I’ll never leave you.”

-

It was Kuiil’s seventy-third birthday, and Din had spent the whole night revamping the practice field in the yard while his son was asleep. How he’d managed to keep things hidden from a curious Force-sensitive child he’d never know, but somehow he’d succeeded. With the help of the practice combat droid he’d reluctantly bought and had programmed to help Kuiil train, the practice yard was now equipped with a climbing wall, sturdier practice dummies, new terrain including a pit and a maze of ditches, and shooting targets scattered everywhere. Kuiil had long become bored with the simple shooting range and Din had been saving credits for the past year to make something worthy of his ad’ika.

His back - all of him, but especially his back - hurt like hell but Kuiil’s delighted smile and squeals of “Vor entye! Vor entye, buir!” while he hugged his leg repeatedly erased all the pain.

“Can we run it, buir?” begs Kuiil. “Please?”

“It’s yours, ad’ika,” said Din. “I built it for you, to train the way you like to fight.” The climbing wall, in particular, was something he thought Kuiil needed to practice. The kid was as acrobatic as a nexu and if he trained his combat climbing skills, he could neutralize the height advantage most people had on him.

“It’s more fun with you, and I learn more,” said Kuiil. “Please, buir, please?”

He’d been the kid’s father for twenty-five years and he still hadn’t learned how to say no to those big dark eyes. “Sure, ad’ika.”

Kuiil was all but vibrating with excitement as Din unlocked the practice weapons locker and pulled out his stun blaster and Kuiil’s practice vibrosword. He’d get Kuiil convinced of the value of range eventually, but for now the kid still loved to whack and stab. “Against each other, or against the droid?” he asked.

“Us together, buir!” yelled Kuiil, raising his sword high. “Nothing can beat Clan Djarin!”

“I am programmed to give you the greatest age-appropriate challenge I can, Master Kuiil,” said the droid. “I assure you I will be a difficult opponent. You may use the code word ‘frog’ to stop the scenario at any time. Shall I use ranged or melee attacks for this scenario?”

Din looked at his son, and Kuiil said, “Both!”

“As you wish,” said the droid. “I assure you I am only equipped with stun weaponry, and will cause you no lasting damage, though I cannot guarantee you will not feel pain.”

“Bring it!” said Kuiil, and Din swore he could actually feel his heart swell with pride.

The beskar felt heavier more often than not these days, but he wore it still. Kuiil put on his other gift, a new durasteel helmet to replace his old one, better fitted to his growing head, along with his practice armor. “Let’s go, buir!” he said.

They ran into the practice field, the droid on their heels. Din mostly ducked behind cover and let Kuiil take the lead. He leapt so high and far he almost flew, engaging the droid in close quarters but retreating when he was driven back. Kuiil went for the climbing wall and Din followed. “Come on, buir!” said Kuiil, starting to climb up. “Get up high and fire on him, and when he’s distracted I’ll jump down and get him!”

“Affirmative,” grunted Din. The climbing wall had definitely been intended for Kuiil, not him, but he started climbing anyway. The beskar felt like stones weighing his body down. He got off a shot at the droid, but felt his grip slipping and knew he had to use two hands to stay up. He holstered his blaster, and then -

The droid’s shock blast pinged off his shoulder but it was enough. His hand slipped, the other didn’t grab a hold soon enough, and he went down like a sack of potatoes. He heard a sickening crack and felt a snap as he slammed into the ground.

The next thing he knew was Kuiil yelling “Buir! Buir!” and shouting “Frog!” at the droid. Kuiil’s face appeared in his vision, blurring into two or four of him. “Buir! Buir, are you all right?”

“Just landed hard,” he mumbled.

“Buir, your leg!”

Din tried to sit up and almost screamed as pain shot through his leg. He flopped back down, panting. “Just landed hard.”

“I am programmed to assist with first aid,” came the droid’s voice from somewhere nearby. “Judging from the angle of the leg at a non-joint area, it is definitely broken.”

“Glad you’re here to tell us these things,” muttered Din.

“I can fix it,” said Kuiil frantically, and Din bit back a yelp at the feeling of three fingers on his injured leg.

“Kuiil -”  _ It still tires you out too much, you shouldn’t…  _

He did howl as the bone snapped back into place, but after a moment the eerie, terrible sensation of knitting bone and muscle was gone and so was the pain. Instead he felt the weight of his son collapsing on his leg.

“Kuiil!” He sat up, stiff and sore, but even his back didn’t hurt that much anymore. His boy was seventy-three today but still small enough for him to pick up and cradle him close, so he did. “Kuiil!”

Kuiil blinked blearily. “I’m all right, buir.”

“How many times have I told you, Kuiil? Healing tires you out, and a tired out warrior is a dead warrior. I can heal normally, Kuiil, it’s fine!” As soon as the words were out Din felt guilty, but it was true. He was getting older, slower; the incident right now was proof. Kuiil needed to keep himself hale and fit no matter what; there would always be people after him, wanting to use him, and when the day came that Din couldn’t stop them anymore, Kuiil would have to do it himself.

“I don’t want you to be hurt, buir,” said Kuiil drowsily.

“Kuiil -” He sighed, trying not to be mad. Kuiil just wanted to help, like he always did when he used his Force healing. “Kuiil, I’m just slowing down and didn’t grab the handhold in time. It’s no one’s fault but mine.”

Kuiil’s eyes widened. “You can’t slow down, buir. You can’t be a slow warrior or you’ll be a dead warrior.”

Din couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t have a choice, ad’ika. I’m getting old.”

“No!” Kuiil scrambled to sit up, clutching at Din’s beskar breastplate with his claws, eyes wide and pleading. “No, buir, you’re the best warrior in the galaxy! You won’t ever slow down!”

Din smiled at him, brushing dirt out of the white hair on his head. “Even if I don’t slow down, my bones clearly aren’t as strong as they used to be. Aging is part of life, ad’ika.”

“But I can fix that!” said Kuiil. “I’ve gotten even better at Force healing! Broken bones or torn muscles, I can fix that!”

“Oh, ad’ika,” sighed Din. He remembered thinking his own parents would never leave him; that illusion had been shattered, and he knew Kuiil would face that realization one day too. But not today. “I’m fine, Kuiil. Let’s go inside and have your birthday dinner. I got Sorgan frogs for you.”

Kuiil nestled against his chest. “I’m still tired, buir.”

Din knew he should make him walk, should make him be strong no matter what. But it was his birthday, and this was his little boy, who had sacrificed his own strength to spare his father a broken leg. Din carried his son inside.

-

Kuiil was shy about the practice field for the next few days, but his boisterous energy came back and soon enough he was hopping around it like a Kowakian monkey-lizard on spice. Din watched with pride. He wanted to practice combat with his son, but Kuiil hadn’t asked and clearly wasn’t ready to, and if Din was being honest with himself, he wasn’t ready to either. Even if the Force healing had prevented him from suffering through a broken leg, at his age he needed down time to fully recover. The Force healing had eased the stiffness he felt every morning for a few days but it would come back, along with the ache in his joints and the trouble his fingers had with gripping things as tightly or strongly. He should’ve refused to climb the wall at all, he realized now. Some things were simply beyond his physical capabilities these days. He had to face that, to provide a good example to Kuiil, who still wasn’t ready to.

He didn’t like it, but he’d already been given more than he could ask from life. He’d lived long, had a proud career as a great warrior and hunter, been given a child of his own to raise in the ways of Mandalore. No Mandalorian could ask for more, except a warrior’s death, and well… that had seemed more important once, when he was younger. Now that he had Kuiil, he felt the manda would understand if he chose to stay with his son as long as he could. Passing on the Resol’nare, preparing Kuiil so that he would be ready the day he was on his own, that was more important than his own glory.

And if he was being honest, he selfishly wanted every day he could have with his boy. There were already arrangements with the covert that Kuiil would go to them when Din passed on to join the manda. Kuiil would have decades, centuries to practice the ways of Mandalore. It wasn’t unreasonable for Din to keep these years for them.

Lost in his thoughts, it took a flurry of movement for Din’s attention to return to his son. Kuiil flew from the top of the climbing wall, tackling the combat droid and knocking it clear to the ground. “Frog,” intoned the droid.

“Parjai!” cheered Kuiil.

“Jate, Kuiil,” called Din. “Good job.”

Kuiil trotted over to him, sheathing his practice sword on his back. Din had gotten him a new short sword better suited to his size, though it was still almost as tall as Kuiil. “How are you feeling, buir?” chirped Kuiil.

Din smiled under his helmet. “I’m fine.”

“Practice with me?” asked Kuiil hopefully.

“Sure,” said Din. He followed Kuiil onto the practice field, and barely noticed that his joints didn’t hurt at all, and moved more smoothly than they had in years.

-

Din was eighty the last time he saw Cara Dune. Despite her seventy-three years, a permanently busted hip, and a shock of short white hair there was no mistaking that broad grin when he walked up to the little hut on Sorgan she called her own. She was already waiting for him on her porch, a glass of fresh spotchka with a straw in it ready for him.

For once, he won the arm wrestling contest that was their traditional greeting. “Damn, Din,” she said. “I’m getting rusty.”

“Retirement made you soft,” teased Din in return.

“I earned it,” said Cara, leaning back in her chair. The sun was setting, lighting her face up in gold. “Where’s your boy?”

“Off hunting live prey.” Din shrugged. “He says the frogs on Sorgan taste best. I take his word for it. He’ll be around later.”

“I’m glad you came. It’s been a while.”

“Traveling is such a hassle nowadays.” He rolled his shoulders. Climbing up and down the  _ Razor Crest _ ’s ladder was a chore as much as piloting and maintenance these days. He’d taught Kuiil almost everything short of actually piloting out of necessity, and the only reason he didn’t teach him piloting yet is because he didn’t think the ship was quite ready for Kuiil to steal it for a joyride, which was what would definitely happen if the mysterious wrecking of his last speederbike was any indication. “I’m too old for it. Space makes my bones ache.”

“You still feel plenty strong to me,” said Cara, flexing her hand. “When was the last time you won a wrestling match against me?”

“Four years ago, that time we both threw out our backs.”

Cara laughed. “How could I forget? Thought we were gonna give Kuiil an aneurysm.”

Kuiil had been  _ very _ upset at the sight of his father and honorary aunt stuck lying on the floor like turtles on their backs, even if getting them back on their feet was easy with the Force. Din had tried to persuade him to only heal Cara, to not wear himself out fixing both of them, and that he’d be fine with ice packs and some rest. Kuiil had of course ignored him and healed them both and ended up sleeping for two whole days. Din had had nightmares about an army of Imperial droids storming their house and being unable to protect him, and had kept them on the  _ Razor Crest _ in the emptiness of space until Kuiil felt well enough again.

“He’s a worrier,” said Din eventually. “The more he grows, the more he worries.”

“Then he’s like his old man,” said Cara, giving him a friendly smack on the arm.

He would’ve liked to argue, but it was true. A day didn’t go by where he didn’t think about what Kuiil would do when he was gone. He was a smart boy, but he was still a child. Din probably wouldn’t live long enough to see him in the equivalent of his teenage years. The thought made his chest hurt.

“Ba’vodu!” called a voice, and blinking into the sunset Din saw his son sauntering towards them with a brace of frogs in his hands. “I brought dinner!”

“You’re cooking it, then,” said Cara.

“Aunt Cara,” whined Kuiil, stopping in front of her and taking off his helmet to give her a pitiful look.

“You’re young. It’s your job to look after the elderly.” Cara ruffled his hair. “Good to see you again, squirt. I think you’ve gotten a little taller.”

“I grew a whole half-centimeter last year,” said Kuiil proudly.

“Good,” said Cara. “You’re tall enough to reach the stove.”

Kuiil grumbled. “Just swallow them. They taste better that way anyway.”

Cara gave him a lopsided grin. “Your pleading won’t work today, sorry kid. Storm’s coming in and the bad hip hurts like hell. I’m not standing at the stove.”

Kuiil really did hate to cook and Din took pity on him. “I’ll help,” he finally said, getting out of the chair. His joints protested the movement, but the aching eased after a moment of adjustment.

Cara snorted at him. “Wish I could still move like you. And aren’t you older than me? Not fair.”

“Guess I won another round, then,” said Din, clapping her on the shoulder as he followed Kuiil inside.

The evening was warm so they ate outside on the porch, Din and Cara slurping at stew while Kuiil gulped down whole frogs. Cara had plenty of spotchka to share and Din pretended to not see Kuiil swipe a quick drink from his glass. He and Cara traded stories late into the night, telling Kuiil all his favorites and trying to think of new ones to share.

If tomorrow was the day he joined the manda, he would miss Kuiil. But he would be content.

-

Six months later, Din was eighty-one, and he got back in his ship to go to Sorgan to see his old friend Cara Dune. Cara had liked Sorgan enough to spend her last several years there, and the feeling was mutual with the locals. The mayor of the town called him, saying he had been one of Cara’s few contacts, and she felt it would’ve been Cara’s wish that he be present at her funeral.

He still hadn’t taught Kuiil to fly. Space still made his bones ache, but climbing the ladder was a little easier. A fluke, probably. The  _ Razor Crest _ sat in her little makeshift hangar and only got attention for maintenance and upgrades these days; Din certainly wasn’t climbing any ladders elsewhere. Din had already fully replaced both engines, updated the laser cannons to modern specifications, and had most of the hull redone and repainted. When he was gone, the ship would be Kuiil’s, and he wanted it to be the best it could be.

Din just wished he had a different reason to give it a test flight.

The town had a communal graveyard, dotted with burial mounds. They arrived before Cara’s body was to be interred in her own. She still had her familiar grin on her face, though more peaceful than it had been in life.

Kuiil hadn’t asked to be picked up in years, but when they took their turn to stand in front of Cara and say their farewells, Din felt the patting of hands on his boot that had been so familiar all those years ago. He picked Kuiil up and and Kuiil tucked his head under Din’s helmet. “Ba’vodu,” whispered Kuiil, his voice breaking.

“We will remember her. She will not be part of the manda, but we can still remember and honor her,” Din told him. “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Cara Dune.”

Kuiil repeated after him. “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Ba’vodu Cara.”

Din carried him away, and they let Cara’s other friends and neighbors have their turn. He could set Kuiil down then. Probably should, given his age; he couldn’t even carry a crate around as long as he used to, and the beskar weighed heavily on him these days. But it’d been so long since he’d held his son, and Kuiil was too short to see over all the others here anyway, so he held him as the remembrances were completed and Cara’s body was covered in the rich dark soil of Sorgan to stay forever.

They were invited to the traditional funeral feast afterward as well, and though Din wouldn’t be able to eat he stayed, watching Kuiil wander off into the crowd. He didn’t know the villagers, people who had known Cara through her retirement and called her friend, nor did he have much use for celebrating her. She had passed, and he had remembered and honored her. This was the way. But he stayed. If he stared ahead long enough, it almost felt like she would come up and clap him on the shoulder any moment, offering a quip and a glass of spotchka.

“Mandalorian?”

He turned to see a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, a mourning shawl over her bright blue clothes. There was something familiar about her dark eyes.

Kuiil poked his head out from behind Din’s leg. “Winta?”

A huge grin lit up her face. “Baby! Oh… that’s probably not your name now, is it?” She laughed, brushing the hair away from her face.

Kuiil squinted at her. “My name is Kuiil Djarin.”

“I hadn’t named you yet when we stayed at Sorgan,” said Din. “Do you remember?”

“The best frogs,” said Kuiil. He grinned up at Winta. “And the best friends.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw the two of you,” said Winta. “It’s been so long. I saw Cara from time to time since she retired here but I never ran into the two of you, though she said you’d visit sometimes. How have you been?”

There was too much to tell about the last thirty-plus years, so Din just said, “Good, and you?”

“Great,” said Winta. “The farm is prospering, and ever since you arrived we never had trouble with raiders. They’d try of course, but never did much damage. Mama alone would’ve been enough to send them running.”

“How is your mother?” asked Din.

Winta’s eyes cast down. “Bad winter last year,” she said quietly. “Lots of sickness in the village. Most of the elderly didn’t make it, including Mama.”

He remembered Omera’s fierce determination, her steel nerves; it seemed impossible to think that she was gone too, like Cara. “I’m sorry.”

Winta smiled sadly. “She would’ve been glad to see you.”

He would’ve been glad to see her too, but his throat was too heavy to say the words. He’d never been close to Omera like he had been with Cara, but he’d had a lot of respect for the woman in the short time he’d known her. The galaxy was lesser for the loss.

Kuiil didn’t want to stay longer on Sorgan, saying something about the frogs not tasting good this time, so they flew back home that night. Kuiil was unusually quiet, not his boisterous self at all, but Din gave him space this time. Much as he wished he could, he couldn't handle those feelings for him. Kuiil had to learn, because someday soon, he’d be on his own with them.

For himself, once he was alone in the cockpit, he whispered, “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Cara Dune, Omera,” over and over again, until he could sleep.

-

Din saw his eight-second birthday, his eighty-third, more until counting them only meant Kuiil made him tiingilar with the traditional spices instead of the local ones and a pan of uj’alayi. He and Kuiil still lived in their little house, isolated out in the dry plains. The vibrations from a moving speederbike made his entire body hurt so bad he had to lie down for a day or two afterward, so either Kuiil ran the necessary errands to the nearby village or someone came to visit them. The local mechanic was excellent and by the time he’d turned ninety-three, Din had had her completely revamp the  _ Razor Crest. _ It was still an ancient model but now it was vintage instead of junk, a ship worthy of his son.

He’d resigned himself long ago to the idea that he wouldn’t make it to the time when Kuiil was old enough to fly. But the ship was completely redone by Kuiil’s one hundredth birthday, and Din’s gift to him that day was the stars.

Din had expected to need Kuiil’s help to make it up the ladder - his back was always hurting and more often than not was unable to straighten, and his hands had trouble grasping things firmly - but he climbed on his own to the familiar cockpit. The pilot’s seat had been replaced with a higher one custom-made for the ship’s new owner.

Kuiil stared at it. “Buir…” He looked up at Din. “Buir, this is  _ your _ ship.”

“No, ad’ika,” said Din. “I’m too old to fly. It’s yours.”

His heart swelled with pride as he watched his son clamber into the seat, his three clawed fingers curling around the controls that had been replaced with ones resized for his hands. “You’ve wanted to fly this ship since I first met you,” said Din. “She’s all yours now, Kuiil.”

“I can’t fly her without you,” said Kuiil.

“Of course you can,” said Din.

He showed Kuiil the entire cockpit, every button and control. The whole thing had been revamped to accommodate Kuiil’s size; even at a hundred Kuiil was not much taller than his knee. Kuiil had watched him pilot for so many years he picked up everything quickly enough, and soon Din told him, “All right, take her out.”

Kuiil whipped around to stare at him, wide-eyed. “Take her out?”

Din grinned. Kuiil could see it now, too; the beskar was far too heavy anymore, and unless they had visitors he didn’t wear it, even the helmet. “She’s yours, Kuiil. She’s been completely revamped over the past several years and she’ll keep up with any of the modern ships.” He ruffled the white hair on his son’s head. “It’s your one hundredth birthday. I had to get you something special.”

“Buir…” Kuiil’s eyes narrowed with that familiar steely determination he was so proud of. “I will fly her well, buir.”

Din sat back in one of the back seats. “Then it’s time for your maiden flight.”

He probably hadn’t needed to go through all the instructions for flying the ship. There had been countless hours when he’d flown with Kuiil right on his lap. As a baby it almost always made him stop fussing and once he got older, he could never get enough of the stars and was full of questions about the ship’s functions. There were so many memories here. Even on the worst days, when Din wasn’t sure if he’d live to see tomorrow, he’d had Kuiil here with him.

The  _ Razor Crest _ hummed serenely as it rose into the air, a far different sound from the ancient pre-Empire engines that had once growled so loudly. Kuiil hadn’t been able to sleep when they’d first moved out here and had told him it was because he was so used to the engine noise soothing him to sleep.

Kuiil handled the controls masterfully, as Din knew he would. Truthfully, he was pretty sure this wasn’t Kuiil’s first flight with the  _ Razor Crest _ . There had definitely been times when he looked in the morning to see it several meters off from where it had been parked the previous night. But he was still glad to have the illusion of seeing Kuiil’s first voyage.

The clear blue sky darkened into an expanse of stars. “Where to, buir?” asked Kuiil.

“Just take us in an orbit,” said Din. There was nowhere he needed to go, not anymore.

The  _ Razor Crest _ responded smooth as silk to Kuiil’s commands, and they soared above their home planet, the one they’d finally found after years of running and shaking off the Empire and finally destroying all their records of and data on Kuiil for good, as well as everyone who’d tried to pursue them. Out here it wasn’t some dusty backwater but a smooth golden pearl hanging among the stars.

Kuiil banked the ship gently, aligning the course to match the orbiting ring of asteroids below them. The planet’s golden glow and the light of the yellow sun it orbited filled the cockpit as they lazily sailed above the asteroids.

Din raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you’ve got, ad’ika?”

Kuiil looked back and smirked. “Hold on, old man.”

The ship banked hard enough Din had to grab on to the seat. Kuiil took them down into the planet’s rings, darting between asteroids, avoiding them with uncanny precision. Another skill in the Force, Din realized. He wished he’d realized it sooner. He would’ve taught Kuiil to fly years ago, given him another tool to have at his disposal.

The  _ Razor Crest _ rocketed ahead and out of the asteroids, slamming Din back into his seat and making him laugh at the thrill. “I always knew you’d be a reckless pilot, ad’ika.”

“I can show you reckless,” says Kuiil, and the ship ducked and spun and rose again, as acrobatic as Kuiil himself, the stars spinning out the viewport.

Din almost shut his eyes for the dizziness, but it was too much fun and he couldn’t stop laughing. Kuiil laughed too, doing another barrel roll, and as they dived back to the planet’s surface he suddenly banked away hard.

Too sharp, too fast, and Din fell out of the seat, his legs twisting painfully under him enough to make him yelp.

“Buir!” The  _ Razor Crest _ stopped immediately and Kuiil flew out of the seat to him. “Buir, I’m sorry, are you all right?”

“Of course,” said Din. He grabbed the wall to pull himself up but his arms weren’t strong enough. Kuiil raised his hand and an invisible power helped Din up instead, but as soon as it let go his knees collapsed out from under him. “Haar’chak,” grumbled Din.

“I can help,” said Kuiil, reaching out his hand for Din’s legs.

“No!” said Din, forcing his son’s hands down. Kuiil looked like he’d been slapped, and Din reached out to gently touch his face. “They just feel sprained, Kuiil. I don’t think anything’s broken. Rest and ice will fix it.”

_ “I _ can fix it, buir,” said Kuiil anxiously. “I did it. I  _ should _ fix it.”

“After years of being thrown around in this cockpit, I should’ve known to actually wear the seatbelts,” said Din with a chuckle. In his defense, for most of his lifetime there hadn’t been any seatbelts, though there were now.

“Buir, please, let me help,” pleaded Kuiil.

“I’m not having you spend your birthday asleep,” said Din sternly. “Go finish the flight.” He chuckled. “Maybe not fly so recklessly, though.”

The  _ Razor Crest _ flew so smoothly that even a newborn babe could have slept peacefully on the floor, and Kuiil landed it so softly Din’s knees weren’t even jarred. They hurt plenty, enough to keep him from walking at all, so he allowed Kuiil to levitate him and carry him that way out of the ship and into the house. Kuiil set him on the couch and despite his protests spent the rest of the day attending to his every need as though he was a Dubrillion prince. For the first time ever, Kuiil made his own birthday dinner, or at least the part of it meant for a human.

Din kept his eyes open long enough to eat. Then the painkillers, the exhaustion, and the fact he usually needed a nap or two to even make it through the day lately overtook him, and he fell asleep.

-

Din groaned and shifted. His knees hurt like hell; the painkillers had worn off. He opened one eye and saw it was pitch black except for the lights on the door lock. It had to be the middle of the night. He sighed. He could ask Kuiil to get him more painkillers in the morning. He’d fallen asleep in worse pain than this.

He was just drifting off again when he sensed movement.

Decades of hunting had him instantly on alert. He stayed still, eyes closed, listening to footsteps so quiet he almost couldn’t hear them. When he felt a hand brush against his leg, that was when he snatched it away - and heard a surprised yelp in an unmistakable voice.

“Kuiil!” Din fumbled the nearest lamp on, illuminating the very guilty face of his son. “What are you doing?”

“Just checking on you,” said Kuiil innocently.

“Sure.” Din narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t sneaking in to Force heal me, were you? How many times have I told you not to waste your strength when I can heal normally?”

Kuiil’s ears drooped, but he wasn’t to be deterred. “I’ve gotten much better at it, buir! I’ve had lots of practice! I hardly get tired at all anymore unless I do something major, like a broken bone!”

“That doesn’t mean that -” Kuiil’s words finally filtered through his brain. “Wait, what do you mean lots of practice? Most of the time it’s just you and… and me…”

Kuiil’s eyes went wide as he realized his mistake. “Buir…”

“You… you’ve been Force healing me?” asked Din. “When I’m asleep like this?”

Kuiil was silent, his ears falling further.

“Every night?”

“Not every night,” muttered Kuiil petulantly. “Just… most nights. At least once a week.”

“Why, Kuiil?” demanded Din. “There’s no need! I always heal fine even when I get an injury, and I’m in great health for my age, especially compared to…”

He trailed off, and the realization hit him like a charging mudhorn.

Everyone else he’d known his age was already gone or close to it. Mandalorians didn’t live as long as most, regardless of their species; even if they were not granted death in battle, their battered bodies gave out sooner than those who didn’t follow the Way. Cara the former soldier had been proof of that; despite her happy retirement on Sorgan she’d suffered from numerous old wounds that never truly healed and constantly ached or hindered her, like her busted hip that hurt so bad she couldn’t even stand when the weather turned wrong. Greef Karga had had a heart attack years ago; he’d survived the first one but the second had taken his life despite Nevarro having a decent medcenter by that time, the years of strain and stress too much for his body. Paz had been stabbed during a fight; he’d survived the wound but the infection after had been too much for his aging body to take, and would’ve ended him if he hadn’t found a last battle to finish his life in. Even Omera, who lived a relatively simple life, had fallen to sickness in her old age.

Din didn’t remember the last time he’d had so much as a cold. The last time an injury had bothered him for more than a week. He was  _ ninety-three. _ He shouldn’t be able to walk without an aid. He shouldn’t be able to move without feeling it in every joint. He shouldn’t be able to still grip a blaster, or bear the heavy weight of his beskar helmet. But he could.

“Kuiil, how long have you been healing me in my sleep?” he asked.

Kuiil stared at the floor, guilt written all over his face. “Since you fell off the climbing wall,” he said softly.

“Since -” Din sat fully upright, refusing to wince at the pain in his knees. “For  _ twenty-five years?!” _

“When I saw you fall off the wall I -” Kuiil waved his hands helplessly, at a loss for words. “And then you were always saying your back hurt, or that the beskar felt too heavy, or you were tired, and I - I knew I could fix it, so I studied human anatomy and I read about what happened when you age and when I realized I could heal it, I - I did.”

“You… you stopped me from aging?” asked Din, staring down at his hands. They looked plenty old to him, the wrinkles marring the scars, and he definitely couldn’t use a vibroknife the way he used to.

“No,” said Kuiil defensively. “I just… I slowed it down a little. Like I read that cartilage breaks down and that’s why human joints hurt as they age. So I healed the cartilage, one joint each night. And then the next time I strengthened the bones a few at a time. Or if we were planning to fly, I would heal your fingers or your back so you could climb the ladder and sit in the pilot seat. Just… things like that.” He shrugged, still staring at the floor resolutely. In a tiny voice, he said, "I didn't ever want to lose you, buir."

“Kuiil…” He didn’t know how to have this conversation. They’d talked about it after Cara was gone, and other friends, and of course Kuiil had known for years that he would outlive most other species. “Kuiil, you know that I will always be with you. The manda -”

Kuiil cut him off by climbing up on the couch, tucking himself under Din’s arm in a childish gesture Din hadn’t seen from his son in years. “You said you’d never leave me, buir. As long as you had breath in your body.”

“Kuiil…” He played with one of the ears, not quite as oversized anymore but still plenty big. “It doesn’t count if you keep putting breath in my body I’m not supposed to have.”

Kuiil curled up closer to him, saying nothing, sniffling faintly.

“I have had a good life, Kuiil. I have fulfilled every tenet of the Resol’nare. I have spoken Mando’a and worn beskar and and aided my clan and come to the Mand’alor when she called.” He hugged Kuiil closer. “I was lucky enough to find a son of my own to raise. It is enough for me. I don’t need any more.”

Kuiil pressed his face against Din’s neck.  _ “I _ need you, buir.”

“You will  _ always _ have me, Kuiil,” said Din, holding him close. “I’ve had more years with you than I ever thought I would. I don’t need you to steal more for me.”

Kuiil’s voice was so tiny he almost couldn’t hear it. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be, Kuiil.” He leaned back, waiting for Kuiil to look up at him. “When I lost my own parents I found the Mandalorians, and made my own aliit. You will too.” He sighed, hugging Kuiil close again. “It’s time you found your own way. You’ve spent long enough babysitting an old man.”

“I don’t mind,” said Kuiil. He looked up hopefully. “Maybe a little longer?”

Din raised an eyebrow at him. “No more Force healing?”

“If that is what you want, buir… then I promise. No more.”

Din held him close, and Kuiil pressed his face against his father’s shoulder, and they stayed that way for a long time.

-

Kuiil stood silently in the dusk, watching the last flames die down in the funeral pyre.

Buir had said he didn’t mind whatever Kuiil chose to do, but cremation was traditional for Mandalorians, and Buir was Mandalorian. The Way had always been more important to him than his own life. Kuiil had built the pyre with his own hands and his own strength, without the Force involved. It was what his buir deserved.

The beskar helm was nestled in the embers, still silver under the dust and smoke. The rest of the beskar was already packed onto the  _ Razor Crest, _ to be taken to the covert. Buir had given it to him, saying it was to be reforged into armor of his own. The same beskar the Imperials had paid Buir to bring him to them would now protect him in battle. Somehow, it seemed right. But not the helmet. Even though he knew it had only been half his life, it seemed to Kuiil that the familiar silver helmet had always been there, watching over him. It had meant safety and comfort and home as long as he could remember. Maybe someday he would be ready to reforge it, but not today. For now, it would go on the ship and be laid aside with honor, a reminder of the Resol’nare and the manda and the importance of aliit.

At first he hadn’t wanted to honor Buir’s wishes and not heal him with the Force. He couldn’t sleep at night, afraid he would wake to find his Buir gone. And without the healing, Buir’s health started failing rapidly.

But he’d had almost another full year with his father. And he found that Buir had been right after all about how Force healing affected him. As soon as he stopped even the relatively little he had been doing, he had much more energy and even grew a whole centimeter within the year. That was when he finally understood, because if nothing else he knew that Buir would never want him to sacrifice himself, even for his buir. That was a parent’s job, not a child’s, and Buir had always taken his duties seriously.

The Force had even been kind enough to whisper a warning in his ear. He’d woken up in the night and gone to his father’s side, and spoke with him and sat by him before he finally joined the manda. Buir had been happy, at peace, when he left. It was the only gift Kuiil could give and he’d been glad he’d been able to.

Kuiil stayed until the stars were out and the embers dulled to ash. Only then did he pull the beskar helm from the pyre and press its face to his forehead. “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Din Djarin, ner buir.”

The wind ruffled through his hair like familiar hands, and the Force whispered in his ear. Kuiil started. He’d read texts about Jetii coming back as ghosts, and that they lived on through the Force when they died. Maybe the manda was the same way?

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la,” he murmured. “Ret'urcye mhi, Buir.”

And with that, he turned to the  _ Razor Crest, _ to make his own path in the galaxy.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I didn't make you too sad. I just had too many questions I had to explore in writing! Baby Yoda and how he deals with being a member of such a long-lived species, what you can do with Force healing, how Din's perspective has changed due to being a father, what would he teach his child about death/how would he handle that talk as a character and a father and a Mandalorian, etc. And I'm just so fascinated by the idea of an older Baby Yoda as a character in general.
> 
> Other Mando'a in the fic:  
> aliit = clan  
> Vor entye = Thank you  
> Parjai = Victory  
> Jate = Good  
> Ba'vodu = Gender neutral aunt/uncle (in Cara's case "Aunt")  
> Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum = Daily remembrance of those passed on *I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.*  
> Tiingilar = spicy Mandalorian casserole  
> uj’alayi = Mandalorian cake  
> Haar’chak = Dammit  
> Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la = Not gone, merely marching far away. (Tribute to a dead comrade.)  
> Ret'urcye mhi = Goodbye - lit. *Maybe we'll meet again*


End file.
